SCRATCH
January 11th, 2025
First week with the journal
Today I completely failed at work. Just like at Sky Club.
This morning was the big meeting with Japanese clients. I'd prepared for three straight nights, made a fifty-slide presentation. Thought this time would be different, maybe finally get promoted to CTO.
But when I walked into that conference room, it all started again.
Big conference room, round table with laptops lined up perfectly. On the big screen were the stern faces of Japanese executives. I sat down, opened my laptop, and felt my hands start shaking.
Exactly like holding the cue stick.
"Kenji Dang, go ahead and start your presentation," Manager Minh said.
I stood up, opened the first slide. But my voice came out trembling like a leaf. My hands were sweating, could barely hit the button to advance slides.
"Hello... today I will..." I couldn't speak properly.
My colleagues looked at each other, some smirking. I knew what they were thinking.
By slide five, I forgot what I was saying. Stood there like a statue, brain completely blank.
"Are you okay?" Manager Minh asked.
"I... I'm sorry."
Finally I had to stop mid-presentation and walk out. Just like at Sky Club. Same exact feeling of despair.
---
Sitting in the bathroom, I called Minh Anh.
"It happened again," I said. "At work this time."
"Same symptoms as at the billiards club?"
"Worse. Fifty people watching, important clients. I froze completely."
Minh Anh was quiet for a moment.
"Maybe the problem isn't just billiards," she said.
Yeah. I'd known that for a while.
---
After that I had to go to Manager Minh's office.
"Phi Dang, is there something wrong?"
How could I explain? That every time there's pressure, my body refuses to cooperate with my brain?
"I'm having issues with... stress," I answered.
"These past eight months you've done excellent work. But today..."
"I want to withdraw from this project."
Manager Minh was surprised, but eventually agreed.
---
Sitting alone in the office after submitting my resignation, I looked around the small cubicle where I'd sat for fifteen years.
Fifteen years.
The dual monitors still glowing, unfinished code from yesterday. The old coffee mug with stains from last year. The desk calendar nobody had flipped since last month.
Fifteen years. What had I given up?
I remembered Mom's birthday last year. I promised I'd come home for dinner, but ended up working overtime for the final sprint. Mom called at 11 PM, voice sad: "If you're busy, it's okay. Maybe next year."
Next year. And I was still here, still busy.
Or My friend, Tuan Can—my teammate since day one. He had a stroke right at his desk in March. I was in a meeting when the news came. I wanted to go to the funeral, but project deadline was approaching.
"You understand, Dang. Mr. Tuan would understand too," the boss said.
Tuan would understand. But I didn't understand myself.
The funeral was on Friday. I sat here debugging code and eating a cold sandwich. Looking out the window at the rain, wondering if many people would come to see him off.
Probably not many. We were all busy.
Busy with what? Working toward what?
To stand in front of clients today shaking like a reed? To spend my whole life afraid of other people's eyes?
I opened my drawer and pulled out a small photo taped to the corner of my monitor. A picture of me and college friends at a billiards hall near campus. 2006, after I came back from Japan.
In the photo I was smiling, holding a cue stick, looking confident. Like a completely different person.
When did I lose that Phi Dang?
When did I become this frightened person?
I folded the resignation letter, put it in my shirt pocket. Turned off the computer. Stood up and looked back at my seat one last time.
Fifteen years. Gone.
But maybe, maybe it was time to start over.
---
May Café was crowded as usual. I sat in my familiar corner, ordered black coffee without sugar.
I opened the food delivery app, but my hand started shaking again. Afraid to talk to the delivery guy.
Looking at my reflection on the phone screen—a tense man afraid of basic communication.
This is rock bottom.
---
I write in this journal like Master Long told me. Record every time my body rebels against my will.
Today: work presentation, ordering food.
Clear pattern: whenever I'm being watched and judged.
Brain says do this. Body says no.
Just like billiards. Just like everything.
---
Maybe Master Long is right. Maybe I need to face something from the past. 2005.
But I don't remember anything. Just blank space.
The only thing I know for sure: since then, pressure always makes me collapse.
---
Phone buzzes. Message from Minh Anh.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like shit. I quit my project today."
"Maybe it's time to focus seriously on billiards. Figure out what's broken inside."
"I'll help. Whatever it takes."
Strange. She cares too much for someone she's never met.
---
Almost eleven. Coffee shop is about to close.
Tomorrow I'll practice billiards. Find a way to fix whatever's broken inside me.
Can't live like this anymore. Afraid of my own shadow.
Time to debug this person.